My Girl
by emmiemac
Summary: While waiting for Sansa, Sandor gives his heart to another girl. Pure Valentines' fluff. One-shot futurefic.


_DISCLAIMER: This story is entirely based on character[s] from George R.R. Martin's _A Song of Ice and Fire

My Girl

Sandor sat in the solar, trying to ignore the flagon of wine that had been placed on the nearest table. He had dismissed the maid who had brought it, saying he wished to be left unattended. His wife Sansa was presiding with her young lord brother Rickon in the Great Hall, listening to petitioners and complaints. He had dismissed the House Guard from their training earlier than usual. It was the anniversary of the day they had been wed before the Heart tree in the Godswood of Winterfell, and he had hoped to spend some time with his wife there today, to let her know he remembered. Sandor Clegane would never be the shining knight of his young wife's girlish dreams but he was willing to make an effort to let her know how content he was with their life together. He had decided to wait for her in the solar, rather than disturb her in the hall. Time passed and the sun slanted in the leaded glass panes and the shadows lengthened across the floor. And still he waited. His eyes strayed again to the flagon of sour red.

"Da!"

He jumped at the sudden exclamation, and turned his head to the door to see his little girl standing wobbly and big-eyed in the doorway. She smiled gushingly when he sat up straight to acknowledge her, and gave a little wheeze of delight to have found her father.

"Lady Catya Clegane, is it?" he questioned her seriously.

Catya made a sound between a hum and a laugh, which her father took for an affirmation.

"Please, my girl, be welcome," he rasped, holding his hand out to her. At least he would have some company today.

Smiling wider now, the tot raised one unsteady foot and promptly folded onto the floor on her tiny hands and knees.

Sandor held his breath, waiting for a wail or tears but none came. He felt a twinge of pride. "Things do not always go as planned, my girl; as you have just learned. Now what will you do?"

Catya did not look at him, but seemed to be gathering herself. With a huffed effort, she slowly straightened he legs so that she was head-down and arse-up, her hands still braced on the floor. Sandor was watching her with interest when the nurse suddenly appeared in the doorway.

"There you are: naughty child! Forgive me, my lord; since learning to walk, she never cares to stay in one place."

With that, the nurse swiftly picked up her charge off the floor and turned to leave. Catya gave a mighty screech and kicked her small feet in protest.

"Hush now! You've disturbed your lord father," the nurse scolded.

"_Daaaa_!" she wailed, reaching with all her might towards her father and looking at him with piteously pleading eyes.

Sandor winced at the frightful sound but responded quickly to her desperate gaze.

"Put her down," he ordered firmly. "She was causing no trouble."

"Forgive me, my lord, but it is time for her to rest and-"

"She doesn't look too restful to me," he challenged dryly.

"If it please you, my lord, I haven't had to eat since breaking fast this morning. And my lady advises a rest for her daughter after midday." The nurse sounded haughty which peeved him no end.

"Seven hells, woman: she's my daughter too and I say set her down and leave her be. Go eat your meal. I can mind the little wretch if you can; I've lead men into battle!" He berated her impatiently.

By her grim mouth, Sandor suspected that she objected however she was not like to challenge him, especially when hungry.

"Very well, m'lord, it will be as you say." With that, she bent to set Catya down on her feet. "Go to your father, child," she prompted. Then she curtseyed to Sandor and left.

"Tight-ass," Sandor muttered darkly; then he remembered his daughter. "I'd scream bloody murder if I were her charge too," he rasped. "Are you a troublesome wretch, my girl? Let's see what you can do."

Catya grinned happily at him and once again walked unsteadily in his direction, stretching her arms towards him after her first few steps. As she almost reached her father, she pitched forward and stumbled before landing astride his boots: her bottom sitting on his feet while she clutched her arms around his shins.

Sandor looked down upon her over his knees. "A decent effort, if not a graceful one," he rasped flatly. "Up with you, then." He lifted her from her chubby middle and sat her in his lap. "Your mother is the graceful one," he told her, "not me. She can teach you; or mayhaps a Septa, like she had. There's no lady more graceful and gentle than she, even lovelier than her own mother. Mayhaps you will be too then." Her eyes never left his face and so he looked back at her appraisingly.

Catya Clegane, named for her grandmother Catelyn and aunt Arya, did not have her mother's Tully colouring. When she was born, he had hoped she would look like Sansa but he then realized she would look like him, with grey eyes and dark hair, _gods_, like his own sister: a realization that made him happy and terrified him in equal measure. He found himself avoiding her and leaving her care to her mother and nurse as was proper and expected, but Sandor knew that he felt haunted, and that he resisted becoming attached for fear he would lose her all over again.

But Catya would not be denied. Once her clear grey eyes had lighted on him, she had been smitten. She rested easily enough with her mother or her nurse but once her father was present her eyes followed him, then she pointed or reached for him and later crawled to where he was. When he left the room she pouted and even cried. Sansa had laughed.

"She loves you best, it seems," she had teased him once. "Mayhaps I should be jealous, but I cannot question her taste: at least that is one trait she must get from me." She had batted deep blue eyes at him.

"Bugger that nonsense, little bird," he had sneered impatiently. "I'm just the biggest bloody thing in the room; she'll soon grow out of it. And don't make eyes at me, girl; not unless you're looking to end up on your back," he had challenged.

Sansa raised her eyebrows delicately. "Your squire has brought your swordbelt, my lord," she observed politely, her well-mannered mask in place. He had turned abruptly to see his young squire in the doorway, blushing furiously as he held his scabbard and sword, freshly cleaned and honed. Sandor growled as she walked by him to leave, her hands folded demurely and her steps measured and graceful.

"Aye," he told his daughter now as she looked up to him, "you lady mother can teach you womanly graces: dancing and singing and all that fancy needlework she loves. But don't pay too much mind to her songs and stories of knights and ladies: those got her in trouble, and I'll not see the same happen to my girl," he rasped gently as he touched his calloused fingertip to her button nose.

"Heeeee!" She wheezed happily again and wrinkled her nose. Sandor then traced his fingertip from her forehead into her black hair, which had been cut just below her ears. She had previously had long coal-dark ringlets, finer and silkier than a spider's web. He had never been able to resist winding a curl around his finger whenever Sansa had given him Catya to hold.

"You look like a bloody page boy, my girl. Best hope that nurse knows what she's doing," he grumped.

Sansa had told him that cutting her hair would ensure that it grew back thicker and more lustrous. Sandor had feigned indifference, but then later he had found one of his handkerchiefs folded on the table next to their bed. When he had unfolded it he had found a lock of Catya's curls, tied with a dainty yellow ribbon. He had gently brushed it with his fingertip before abruptly folding it up again.

"Damn you, little bird," he had whispered hoarsely. Then he had tucked the handkerchief into a wooden box where he held valuables, including his pardon from Jaime Lannister for having deserted the Kingsguard and Elder Brother's letter absolving him of the notorious sack of Saltpans, perpetrated by a vicious brigand wearing Sandor's Hound helm during the War of Five Kings.

"I can teach you swordplay," he told his daughter now, "with a wooden sword. Some girls like that; I once knew a girl who wanted to be a knight, and we played with wooden swords…" he trailed off as she looked up at him steadily with her clear eyes. "A girl just like you," he rasped wistfully.

"Voof," she remarked after a short silence.

"What's that, girl?" he questioned harshly.

"Voof," she repeated, no longer looking at his face.

Sandor looked down to see she was looking at the dog sigil stitched to his tunic, a gift from his wife.

"Did I not tell you needlework was one of your lady mother's skills? Or mayhaps you like dogs, like your Papa, hm? Grrrrrr," he growled menacingly, "woof-woof-woof!"

"Eeeeeee," Catya shrieked before giving way to giggles of delight with her little head thrown back and her eyes shut tight. When she looked to him again, she leaned forward and reached her little arms out again. "Mmph," she strained to be closer to him.

"Well," he rasped, confounded, "you're a brave little one, aren't you?"

"Hee," she agreed with an enchanting little smile; a smile that filled and broke his heart at the same time. He remembered a pair of sparkling grey eyes that slowly had the joy and the light and the life taken from them as she was taken from him because he could not protect her. But he could protect his daughter and keep her safe, see her grow up happy, to be a brave girl and a graceful young woman. _Oh little bird what you have given me. _

"I'll keep you safe," he told her harshly, "no one will ever harm you, my girl, or I'll _kill_ them." He brought his face close to hers and spoke fiercely as she looked at him curiously, her little smile lingering as she put her little hand on his scarred cheek.

Sandor blinked once, and then felt himself laugh softly. "Well, seems you are like your mother already. You know to tame a fierce dog." He lifted her up again and sat her closer, tucked into the crook of his arm. "But your Papa can teach you things too, my girl, seeing as how you are so brave. Not just swords, but riding: you'll have your own pony, when the time comes. Could be you'll want to hunt; some ladies learn to use a bow. I taught your mother to set traps, and dress meat for the spit, and to build a fire-"

"And to use a dagger and gouge out eyes with my thumbs," she spoke low and sweet, belying the harsh lessons of which she spoke as she stepped into the solar.

"My lady," Sandor nodded solemnly.

"Mam," Catya sounded.

"Yes, my sweetling," Sansa crooned, "will you come to Mama?" She held out her arms.

Catya turned her head away abruptly: a curt dismissal. She looked up at her father instead.

"Rejected," she cried mockingly. "Did I not tell you she loves you best, Sandor?"

"Aye, little bird, you did," he spoke levelly.

"I'm so sorry I was so long in the hall, my love; I had hoped, well, hoped we could visit the Godswood together. Today-"

"I remember, little bird," he told her. "Still time," he rasped. "Unless you need rest," he looked to her swelling belly, near five moons gone with their next child.

Sansa raised her hands protectively over her belly. "Mayhaps that would be best," she agreed. "But we could dine alone, if you like," she prompted; "great uncle Brynden can eat in the Great Hall with Rickon tonight."

He nodded and stood up with Catya still in his arms. "Come here, girl," he rasped.

When she stepped closer to him, he bent and kissed her, gently at first and then deeply until he felt her reach her hands up to his neck, then broke away.

She flushed delicately. "That was lovely," she murmured, her eyes searching his,"but what was it for?"

Sandor looked at Catya and then back to his little bird.

"Everything," he growled.


End file.
